


The Spider's Web is Never Simple

by TenMoreSins



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anal, BAMF Peter Parker, Bio Irondad and Spiderson, Blowjobs, Dark!Tony, Enforcer Peter Parker, Identity Porn (Sorta), Kingpin Tony Stark, M/M, Mafia AU, Mafia Typical Violence, Manipulation, My How The Turn Tables, Power Bottom Peter Parker, dark!Peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:27:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26886616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TenMoreSins/pseuds/TenMoreSins
Summary: The job was supposed to be easy, and for a player like Quentin Beck, it would've been. That is, if the man he was supposed to get close to hadn't been Tony motherfucking Stark. It was next to impossible to get close to a Boss that paranoid, and yet it was exactly what he had to do.Good thing he was resourceful enough to uncover the very well hidden identity of Stark's heir apparent.Young. Pretty. Doe eyes to die for. But it turned out the kid was far, far more than he bargained for.
Relationships: Quentin Beck/Peter Parker
Comments: 12
Kudos: 83
Collections: Spiderio Mini Bang 2020





	The Spider's Web is Never Simple

**Author's Note:**

> Hello yes this is my fic for the Spiderio Mini-Bang! I will be adding the art for this when it arrives, possibly even with a part two if we're lucky! Enjoy the ride, I know I enjoyed writing it and I have been dying to share it with you guys!

The job was simple, or it was supposed to be. For a player like Quentin Beck, it should have been easy, and would have been, if the target he was supposed to get close to hadn’t been _Tony motherfucking Stark_. Quentin was damn good, but the head of the Stark family held his cards notoriously close to his chest. Rumor was he enclosed himself in concentric circles, those closest to him were less than a handful, and it was a well-worn debate as to which of his posse were actually in that circle and not the next one out, or even the next.

But Quentin was damn good, which was why he was sitting here in this club, cigarette hanging loosely from his lips as he stared through the lazily drifting smoke, bodies and strobe lights, catching intermittent glimpses of the impressively well-guarded heir to the Stark throne. It had been a pain in the ass just to find the guy who knew the guy that knew the guy who could get him the kid’s name. Stark was infuriatingly good at keeping his heir out of the limelight, away from the public eye and out of the tabloids, the papers, _everything_.

Honestly, Quentin could see why. Long limbs, lean muscles, _lithe_. Even from across the club he could see that the boy was a treat on legs, the way he moved to the music absolutely sinful, loose curls damp with sweat sticking to his forehead. Those huge fucking Bambi eyes when he opened them; he probably got those from his father. Quentin could see the lights glinting in them all the way from where he sat, tucked away in a booth alone, unassuming (it wouldn’t do for him to be obvious, now would it?).

Ashing his cigarette, he ground the butt into the ashtray that was just on the ugly side of fancy, exhaling the last of the smoke in his lungs as he slid out of the booth and onto the dance floor. The song changed as he wound his way through the sea of bodies, indulging just enough of them to mask his goal -- though he definitely caught the kid looking, flashed a teasing smile with just enough eagerness in it, just enough nervousness.

 _Gotcha_.

When the song switched again, Quentin’s hands found the boy’s hips, lips against chestnut curls and one of the best damn asses he’d ever felt pressed against his groin. Deceptively delicate fingers found their way into his hair as they settled into the rhythm, and he made a mental note of the two suits lingering at the edge of his peripherals. God, but the kid could move, lean body even better when it was all up against his than it was from across the room. Quentin could feel the shiver that ran through that lithe frame when his lips brushed the shell of an ear.

“Whatever you’re gonna say, save it, I know who you are, Mister Beck,” came the surprisingly level voice as the kid dipped his head back, fingers tightening in Quentin’s hair. “And I know why you’re here, so spare me the sweet talk and let me just pretend that you’re not, okay?”

_Wait. What?_

Not part of the plan.

But Quentin was _good_ , and he wasn’t about to let some barely legal twink make him slip up. So he swiveled his hips when he was supposed to, rolled his body by the kid’s lead. “For what it’s worth, Mister-”

“Peter. Just call me Peter.”

“For what it’s worth, _Peter_ , it isn’t all sweet talk,” Quentin continued, not really surprised that it was actually the truth. He wasn't the type to lie to himself about his vices. “I promise that’s not a gun in my pants,” he purred, letting Peter hear the slight catch in his breath as he dragged the kid’s ass back against his half hard dick, swore under his breath when he heard the sinful little noise that slipped past those pretty lips. Well. Maybe the job would be simple, after all.

“Why don’t we get out of here and you can tell me more about what you _know_ ,” he growled into Peter’s ear, satisfied with the mewl he got in response and the way the kid arched against him. He really hadn’t expected that Stark’s heir would be this _easy_.

“ _God, yes_.”

* * *

It turned out that what Peter _knew_ was how to suck cock like a goddamn champ, because the hotel room door had barely clicked shut before the kid was on his knees and swallowing Quentin to the root with a moan that put porn stars to shame (when the fuck had he even undone his pants?). _Christ_. He had both hands buried in Peter’s hair, tugging to excellent effect, and by God the kid knew what he was doing, made adjustments on the fly clearly based on his reactions.

Peter was in fact so good that Quentin didn’t even feel the need to take over for a while, just letting the kid work his cock like it was candy. It was honestly blowing his damn mind, hands down one of the best blowjobs he’d ever had, and he’d never exactly been the type to be hurting for a mouth around his dick. It raised the question; how the hell had the phantom son of the Stark family gotten so good at this?

“Does your daddy know what you get up to behind closed doors? ‘Cause I _know_ this is nowhere near your first time doing this,” Quentin managed, tugging back on Peter’s hair until the kid slipped off with a slick pop, lips glistening and bruised, cheeks flushed. What a picture he made, and when he sat back to catch his breath, that picture got even better, because the damn kid was fisting his own cock -- didn’t stop his slow tugs even once he was exposed.

“My _dad_ doesn’t control me, Mister Beck. Nobody does,” Peter answered, voice a little rough but matter of fact, maintaining Quentin’s gaze evenly despite the fact that he already looked _wrecked_. “And no, it’s not. Does it make me less desirable to you that I’m not a blushing virgin? Because I promise I’m still _plenty_ tight, sir.”

Jesus, the way he looked up with those huge Bambi eyes when he said that, all sticky sweet fake innocence, still pumping his cock down there on his knees. Sinful had been the right call, Quentin realized, because this kid was an absolute _devil_. Shaking his head in disbelief, he scrubbed a hand over his beard, tearing his gaze away from the movement of Peter’s hand and up to the cocky, self-assured little grin on his lips. “Oh yeah? That so?”

“Get your clothes off and get on the bed, then I’ll show you.”

Quentin raised an eyebrow, but he peeled his shirt off anyway, tossing it aside and smirking catlike at the way Peter’s eyes raked over his bare torso. He knew he looked good, kept in shape, knew that the kid was following the trail of green smoke that crept up over the cut of his hip and on toward his shoulder. Knew as he turned and walked toward the bed that those big brown eyes would follow that trail up to the eye symbol between his shoulder blades. The artist had done a damn good job, so he knew it looked impressive, mysterious. Quentin wondered if the kid would ask.

Hell, maybe the kid already _knew_.

He didn’t give it too much thought, though, stopping at the edge of the bed to remove his shoes and socks before giving Peter the view he was clearly waiting for, making a show of dragging his pants down over his ass. Stepping out of them, he finally turned, only to find the kid had also shed his shirt, and well. _Damn_. Stark’s son was surprisingly cut, all smooth lines over distinct muscles, soft and hard both and just...

“Damn, you’re gorgeous,” Quentin told him, lips still quirked as he hopped up on the bed and spread his arms as if to say _come and get me then_. An invitation and a challenge at the same time. 

“I know,” Peter replied simply, all coy little smile that made him look innocent and evil at once. Quentin could see the hints of a tattoo from where he reclined against the pillows, delicate black lines just curving over the kid’s shoulders, and when Peter shed his shoes and stepped out of his pants (for fuck’s sake he wasn’t even wearing underwear, the little shit), he caught a glimpse of where they led.

“A spider?” he asked, wondering at the long, thin legs that stretched away from the silver dollar sized torso situated just at the base of Peter’s shoulder blades, spindly, almost creepy lines that ended just above the curve of that perfect ass and curled over his shoulders like a sinister sort of embrace. When the boy moved the thing almost looked eerily real. It felt incongruous, but tugged at something in Quentin’s brain, the way Peter’s smile slowly stretched thinner and sharper just fueling that itch.

“Are you afraid of spiders, Mister Beck?”

Quentin shook his head as the boy approached, hands falling to Peter’s hips when that lean form straddled his lap. The glint in Peter’s eyes sent a shiver down his spine, a thrill, because oh, it clicked, and he huffed out an incredulous laugh, touch sliding up the kid’s sides and back down. _Spider_. That was how he knew. He gripped Peter’s ass, pulling his cheeks apart so he could roll his hips up, cock sliding between them teasingly, catching a little on his already slick rim.

“You’re _the_ Spider?” he breathed out, the danger of the situation suddenly increasing tenfold. The look Peter gave him in return was answer enough, but what he wasn’t expecting was the way the kid reached back for his cock, lining up and sinking down on it in one smooth motion, delicate, strong fingers circling around Quentin’s wrists. As Peter pushed his hands against the headboard, his breath caught, hot and heavy in the scant space the kid had left between them.

“And you’re in my web now, _Mysterio_ ,” Peter cooed, grip tightening as he lifted his hips and dropped back down, effectively silencing Quentin’s thoughts with a well-practiced rhythm and a flick of tongue against his lips. 

It turned out that Peter was just as good at riding his cock as he was at swallowing it whole, and he found himself moaning into the kid’s mouth when their lips connected, the taste of precome and cranberry on his tongue. _Fuck_. It was distracting enough to take his mind off the fact that Peter had obviously slicked himself up and stretched himself before this, as well as the fact that he hadn’t bothered with a condom.

God, Quentin was going to leave Stark’s heir dripping with his come, hips flexing to rock up every time Peter dropped down. It was quick and dirty, and somehow that just made it all better, the room filled with the sounds of their heavy breaths, moans, and the slap of skin as they chased their pleasure. At some point, Peter released Quentin’s wrists to sit back, and he took the opportunity to flip them over, fucking into the kid proper. Near gymnast-level flexibility made it easy to practically fold the Spider in half, just the right angle to pound that perfect ass hard and deep until Peter was actually _screaming_.

 _Much better_.

Quentin’s fingers gripped bruises into pale thighs, sweat dripping down from his hairline, breath ragged from exertion, but in a way he had to give this his all, had to keep Peter coming back for more. That was part of the plan after all. The fact that he was the goddamn _Spider_ only made it that much more important that he make his best impression. And oh, he’d thought the Stark heir would want something slow and intimate, might take coaxing to fuck on the first night, but _boy_ was he glad he was wrong, watching the way Peter went rigid, nails digging into his arms when he came hard enough to hit himself in the face. _Shit_.

It was enough to drive Quentin over the edge himself, that rush of power, driving deep a few more times before he emptied his balls into the kid while that tight ass tried to milk his cock for all it was worth. Considering it had been a couple days, it happened to be worth a pretty significant amount, enough that when he pulled out he had to drop his hand down to catch it with his fingers, pushing it right back in and relishing the way Peter gasped out a surprised moan at the feeling. Such a _chore_ it was to ingratiate himself with this kid, he thought, pushing his fingers in deeper while Peter pushed against them like an insatiable little slut.

“Oh, don’t worry, sweetheart, we’re just getting started, I promise,” he crooned, dropping to kiss the kid’s pretty lips again, teeth catching his bottom lip as he pulled back. “After all, little Spider, contrary to what you _know_ , I actually _did_ come here for _you_.”

If Peter knew it was a half lie, he didn't show it. 

* * *

The next time they met, Peter had blood on his cheek, a few drops speckled across the white of his shirt and disappearing into the deep black of his waistcoat. His soft, chestnut curls had been slicked back at some point but were stubbornly defying it now, and those chocolate eyes stared Quentin down from behind the Spider's mask, voracious. Hidden in plain sight, because everyone who was anyone knew the Spider, and the corpse at Quentin's feet told the tale of what happened to those who underestimated his slight frame and innocent smile.

After all, the Spider was Tony Stark's attack dog, his knife in the night, his infiltrator and enforcer. Everyone knew that. But Quentin, he had joined the dangerous few who knew that he was Stark's son, to boot.

"You shouldn't be here," Peter commented, adjusting his gloves, yet Quentin noticed how hungry his eyes were, how they never left him.

"I know," he replied simply, maintaining that intense gaze as though his life depended on it. 

Maybe it did. Maybe if he looked away, showed any weakness, the Spider would strike and he'd be dead before he could think of his mistake. One never knew, and one incredibly memorable night wasn't enough to make him think he'd won the kid over. 

Peter didn't even look away when the dead man's partner tried to sneak up behind him, only stepped to the side to avoid the incoming blow and gracefully strung a noose of filament around the man's thick neck and let it pull him, choking and struggling, above their heads. Quentin was sure he'd never been more turned on in his life. 

The tension sizzled and snapped, and Quentin had Peter up against a shipping crate in seconds, fingers dug into fight-mussed curls and teeth clacking as they fought for dominance in a devouring kiss. And then Peter had Quentin up against the crate, and Quentin was coming down the boy's throat in minutes, the name on his lips bit back by necessity. It all happened so fast he hardly had time to consider it, hazy from orgasm as Peter pressed a salty kiss to the corner of his mouth.

And then the Spider was just _gone_. Slipped into the shadows before Quentin could even return the favor, and he tried not to feel a deep sort of disappointment at that as he tucked himself back in his pants and lit up a cigarette on his way out.

He heard the thud of the hanged man hitting the ground and questioned his whole fucking life. 

* * *

Two months, seventeen days, thirty nine hookups and one accidental confession of some manner of highly inconvenient feelings later, Quentin finally came face to face with Tony Stark. To say that pictures didn’t do him justice would be the understatement of the year, he thought. But then, even the best of photographs couldn’t convey the _power_ that permeated the room while the Boss sat back in his chair like Quentin was no more threat than a buzzing fly, sipping scotch and regarding him with the same darkly appraising stare the Spider had just last week.

It made him shiver.

“My boy has told me _so much about you_ , Beck,” Tony began, crossing one leg over the other, just the barest hint of a smile twitching at one corner of his lips behind the glass. It didn’t reach his eyes and Quentin tucked his thumbs in his belt loops, shifting his stance casually and offering a charming grin of his own. He couldn’t let this man know how on edge he was, any more than he could let Peter know. Like father like son, and both were keen observers, predators waiting for weakness to show itself. He wouldn’t give them that.

“Good things, I hope,” he countered with a bit of a chuckle, smooth, though his eyelids lowered a fraction at the way Tony’s eyes pointedly looked him over. God, this was dangerous. “He hasn’t told me much about you, sir, but I know better than to assume the two-dimensional picture the papers paint of you is all there is. Forgive me if I’m being too forward, but I thought I might like to get to know the man behind the myth a little.”

Quentin watched as Tony switched the cross of his legs, leaned a little more to one side. He watched as the quirk of the man’s lips grew and something flashed in dark eyes. Again, he felt the thrill of the forbidden, the danger, and let it never be said that Quentin Beck shied away from risk. In fact, he might just have been addicted to it at this point. He wet his lips, and caught Tony’s eyes following the motion before they flicked back up, discerning, unreadable.

“Tell me something,” the older man intoned, and Quentin could imagine that rich voice getting anyone to tell him anything just as easily as Peter’s pretty face could. Like with Peter, he never broke eye contact, stood his ground and refused to flinch when Tony’s glass came down harshly on the small table next to his chair. “What’s a man of your position doing sniffing around my door? Because last I checked, you were pretty cozy with S6, and they’ve never struck me as the type to let people go.”

Tony stood, crossing the space between them and inserting himself directly within Quentin’s personal bubble, and still he refused to flinch, refused to lean away, only tilted his head slightly in the face of that piercing gaze. Even if his heart was pounding in his chest and his palms were sweating, he wasn’t about to show fear just so he could be torn apart. The man was shorter, but only just, a distance minimized by the height of his shoes, and yet _he_ felt like the one being looked down on.

“No sir, they are not,” he admitted, quiet but not timid. Matter of fact.

“ _So_. What is it they’ve sent you for? Espionage? Maybe, that is your thing, isn’t it? Mm...” Tony kept going, almost to himself, clearly not looking for an answer as he began to circle around Quentin, scrutinizing, always just a breath away and making goosebumps prickle along his arms. “Would’ve sent someone else if they wanted to kill me, so not that... Ah, a _proposal_ , then, because it would never get past my men even if you labeled it my eyes only. Clever, points for that, but I’m not interested in anything they have to offer, so I’ll ask again, _why are you here, Beck_?”

As the man circled back around to his front, Quentin wet his lips again. He could smell the scotch on Tony’s breath, and damn it all but it was arousing, a fact that he knew would never go unnoticed by this man, let alone this close. _Like father like son_. It wasn’t really surprising that those eyes held his attention just the same as Peter’s, all full of dark promises and darker secrets, gleefully mocking him for everything he didn’t know.

“They wanted me to get in close with you, thought if I could do that it might pave the way for an... arrangement of sorts,” Quentin replied calmly, only a little bit surprised at how easily he revealed the details of his job. After all, at this point there really was no going back, he knew it, Tony knew it, Peter had known it from the start, he wagered. He really was in the Spider’s web, wasn’t he? “But they’re idiots, I told them it was a pointless job, they operate outside your code, but they insisted, and I’m sure you understand how stupid it is to try and tell Ock no to his face. I had to at least make it _look_ like I was trying to get them off my back.”

It was at least mostly true, and at this point more truth than lie, and Quentin shrugged as though his life weren’t riding on this interaction going well. Tony was obviously listening, dissecting his words and determining their merit and weight, so he figured he might as well continue in lieu of a response. Even he was convinced by the sigh he let out, shoulders sagging just enough. “The truth is I’ve wanted out of there for quite some time, but the right opportunity never came up and well, that’s you, sir. You see, I very much happen to like your son, and-”

“Is that why you’ve been looking at me like you want me to take you apart since you walked through that door?” Tony interrupted, gesturing with a quirk of his eyebrow, an inclination of his head, a dare in his eyes. Quentin swallowed, poised to protest if only because one typically didn’t ingratiate themselves to their potential new boss by flirting with him behind his son’s back. But the man continued on, fisting a hand in Quentin’s shirt and yanking him close enough he could almost _taste_ the scotch now, could practically feel the vibrations of Tony’s words against his own lips. “You like my boy so much you look like you want to suck the scotch right out of my mouth and thank me for it.”

Fuck, but his cock twitched at the sound of that, breath catching and pupils blown as if his body truly wanted to spite him right now. Tony’s other hand gripped the back of Quentin’s neck, and he was well and truly trapped, at the mercy of one of the most dangerous men in the world, disturbingly helpless. And then the unthinkable happened, because Tony’s mouth was on his and his brain short circuited for a second.

 _Tony Stark was kissing him dirty_.

The right thing to do would have been to protest, or at least he was pretty sure that would’ve been the right thing to do, but instead Quentin came back to himself at the tail end of a moan, both hands gripping at the open neck of Tony’s shirt, and the taste of scotch on his tongue. Tony’s lips were at his ear and he was hard as a rock, confused, aroused, and admittedly a little bit terrified, his breathing shaky as he stared into the middle distance.

“If I told you to drop to your knees right now and suck my cock, you’d do it, wouldn’t you?” Tony growled into his ear, and Quentin seriously didn’t know anymore what the right answer was supposed to be.

“Yes, sir,” he gasped, earning an ambiguous hum and the graze of teeth against the shell of his ear.

“Say thank you, Beck.”

“Thank you, sir,” Quentin breathed out, swallowing thickly. _What the fuck._

“Good boy,” Tony purred, the sound sending a shiver down Quentin’s spine as fingers clenched harder at his nape. “ _Now apologize_.”

“What-” Quentin managed, the words like a bucket of ice water chilling him to the bone, dread coiling alongside all that lust and making his stomach twist into knots. When he felt heat at his back and familiar hands sliding up toward his shoulders, he paled, holding his breath, the silence so deafening he could hear the creak of expensive leather shoes as they bent to allow their owner to rise onto his toes.

“He said _apologize_ , Mister Beck,” came Peter’s sickly sweet voice directly in his other ear, and fuck, but Quentin didn’t dare move, mind racing to find a way out of this scenario that _didn’t_ end in death, or at least that ended in something _pleasant_ before death. “Say you’re sorry for betraying my trust.”

“Peter-”

“ _Say it!_ ” the boy hissed, all sweetness gone from his tone, the voice of the Spider. “Say it or I’ll carve you like a side of beef and make you _eat it_.” Definitely the Spider, and Quentin felt the press of a blade against his side just above his hip, threatening to slice right through his shirt, not doubting him in the least.

“ _I’m sorry_!” Quentin blurted out, licking his lips and still tasting the damn scotch. “I’m sorry, I am, I won’t make excuses for my behavior, but let me make it up to you Peter, _please_ ,” he pleaded, even if it was Tony’s fault. Tony who still held him by the neck, by the shirt, still breathed against his ear in silence and let his son do the talking. Tony, who probably did this on purpose. _Fuck_.

“And just what do you think you can do to make it up to me, Mister Beck?” Peter questioned, that faux sweetness back. At least that was better than the Spider. “You would have fucked my dad, right here, and I thought we had something, you know, I thought you _liked me_ , I thought that _meant something_.” Well. Marginally better.

“I do, it did- _does_. It does, Peter I swear, you helped me finally make the decision to defect, because if I went back I couldn’t have _you_. It was a moment of weakness, I mean your dad is _ridiculously_ attractive and I don’t always have the best impulse control but it won’t happen again, I’ll do anything,” Quentin argued, feeling the slow but steady creep of the blade up under his waistcoat and by God, when Peter pressed up against his back he could tell the kid was hard, the sexy, twisted little sadist.

“ _Anything_?”

Fuck, he didn’t like the glee in that single word, but what choice did he have now?

“Yes, Peter, anything, I swear, my loyalty is yours, anything I can do, I’ll do it,” Quentin followed up, feeling a little more like he had some semblance of control over the situation, like his life wasn’t actually hanging in the balance anymore. Like he could fucking breathe a little.

Only then did Tony finally ease his grip, shifting it to Quentin’s shoulder in order to turn him to face Peter. Peter who was smiling at him so devilishly he felt as though he should probably be concerned. He felt like he’d just sold himself body and soul as the boy used that wickedly sharp knife to cut the buttons off his vest and then his shirt, one by one, that smile never ceasing. Quentin swallowed thickly, cock taking the opportunity to remind him of how it strained at his pants even though Tony’s hands were still on his shoulders, a threatening weight.

“Now you’re all mine, Mister Beck,” Peter confirmed, drawing the blunt side of the blade up the length of Quentin’s throat from his collarbone all the way to his chin, as if daring him to defy it. And just like that, the kid flicked the blade shut, slipping it back into his pocket and dragging him down into a rough, possessive kiss that was over too soon but left him breathless anyway. Peter stepped back, and there was that glint in his eyes that Quentin could recognize a mile away now. As if none of this had happened, and Tony gave him a pat on the shoulder, a firm squeeze just before shoving him forward and making him stumble.

Quentin hissed as his knees hit the floor, and he heard Peter’s laugh, lifting his head to shoot the kid a look as he tried to rub the pain away. But when he moved to get up, the sudden threat in brown eyes gave him pause. He really wasn’t going to like this, was he?

“I think you look good down there, why don’t you stay like that? You can earn the right to stand when I feel like it. You have a lot of making up to do, you know,” Peter intoned, cocking his head with casual disinterest despite the obvious bulge in his slacks. The boy chuckled when he noticed Quentin looking, and he turned away with a snap of his dainty fingers, pointing toward the floor at his side. The clinking of ice in a glass said that Tony had his scotch in hand once more, and before the smile could fade into annoyance on Peter’s face, Quentin made the painful journey on his hands and knees to the boy’s side, burning with indignation and humiliation.

But he did say _anything_ , didn’t he? Leave it to someone like the Spider to find something truly degrading to make sure he’d learned his lesson. At least the sex would still be phenomenal, and Quentin was sure he could _earn_ whatever forgiveness he needed to quickly enough. He knew better than to try and complain about the pain in his knees, had dealt with worse in S6.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, we’re just getting started, I promise,” Peter purred as he looked down at Quentin by his side, a mockery of their first night together and proof of the persistence of memory. There were worse things than playing pet, he reasoned, leaning slightly into the fingers running through his hair. He could endure this for however long, so even if he ached with every inch, he crawled after Peter when the boy began to walk away.

“You know,” Peter began, mercifully keeping his pace relatively slow so that Quentin could keep up.

“You only found me because I wanted you to, because contrary to what you _know_ , Mysterio, I went there for _you_.”

And fucked if Quentin didn’t actually believe it.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to join me on Discord! I'm part of a [Spiderio server](https://discord.gg/FumvCxwsKy) (but other ships are also welcome)! I like sharing sneak peaks sometimes.


End file.
